


A Most Delicate Condition

by pinkbagels



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Based on ACD Sherlock, I don't know where else to put this, Ideas using a wholly original Mycroft and Lestrade, It's still fanfic, Just the ACD public domain version of it, M/M, Possible original series idea based on Holmesverse, Wholly original Holmes, shrugs?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 04:41:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10297730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkbagels/pseuds/pinkbagels
Summary: I've been reading the canon Doyle texts and had an idea for a wholly original version of Mystrade that would meld with the Victorian ACD version of Sherlock Holmes, though this is very much an original retelling.  I've always liked the concepts of an unreliable narrator, and Dr. John Watson could easily be made a version of this, his stories of his adventures with Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective perhaps not quite so trustworthy as one might assume.  Thus, this kind of fell out of my mind, and I'm not at all sure where to put it.  I might continue on with a larger work based on this, it's still in the mind doodle phase.  The ACD works are in the public domain which is why so many versions of Sherlock exist and have been professionally published/produced--Proof, in case anyone needed it, that fanfiction does have literary merit!





	

A Most Delicate Condition

"You must understand, of course, that I am wholly responsible for my brother's actions, seeing as how he is not in control of them himself. I agree, he is quite convincing, and can lay out all manner of connections to the ramblings he provides, but rest assured, Inspector, my brother is ill. He has been afflicted with this disposition since he was the tender age of fifteen and claimed to hear the world talk to him of its mysteries. I fully understand he has committed a crime but it is perhaps best that we show a measure of mercy in light of his reduced faculty in this regard. My brother is not of a mind to truly know what he is doing."

Inspector Lestrade gave the pale, rather fragile man before him an inspection he didn't often give to the family members who came to collect their errant youth. That this person before him was a judge of the Assize and was a familiar face in the Quarter Sessions meant little to Lestrade, a fact his superiors would find surprising. Lestrade was not a man who cared a whit of a person's station, especially since his long experience had proved that even those most respected of men were perfectly capable of committing crimes.

Still, his Honourable Mycroft Holmes was singular in how ill disposed he was to this manner of discussion, a fact that was not the fault of indolence but rather one of constitution. He spoke with a breathlessness that suggested conversation was physically exhausting, and from the slight tremble in his hand as he gripped the handle of his ivory tipped cane, Lestrade deduced the man was, indeed, suffering. There was nothing of labour in this man, no muscle mass to speak of, a hunch to his shoulders that spoke of long hours at a desk. His plea for his ill brother had merit, but the judge was also a sick man, afflicted by a lung condition that left him constantly battling for every breath.

"Your brother, Sherlock Holmes, was involved in an altercation at The Alma Pub, in regards to a gambling debt. He has claimed, in a most unusual and roundabout way, that he was in fact, in disguise and was investigating the murder of the Alma's proprietor. A rather odd mystery since the owner is very much alive, and quite cross." Lestrade let that information sink in, watching as Mycroft's breathing struggled further before continuing. "You are, of course, the reigning word on the final outcome and nothing I tell you has more merit than simple information. I do note, however, that this is the third time your brother's antics have come to our attention. You do need to watch him more carefully."

"That should not be a problem. He is being sent to Holloway Sanatorium next week, as I have observed their new methods to be both kind and effective in dealing with those of my brother's unique brand of malady. He will be under the care of a man named Dr. John Watson, whom you may have already heard of."

Lestrade nodded. "He has a regular column in The Strand, mostly adventure tales about his time in Afghanistan."

"That is the one."

Lestrade considered this, as he wasn't particularly enamoured with Watson's meandering style, finding it dry and overly attuned to personal anecdotes that were probably entertaining over a fire and a few brandies, but not especially well translated to letters. His work, however, was popular enough for even the most base of Lestrade's associates to have heard of him. The frail man across from him was not especially concerned with this, instead focusing, as he should, on the continued health of his brother, who had come into Lestrade's custody with great flailing and shouting, his paranoia bleeding into the officers who shoved him into the Yard's gaol. For a man of rather upstanding education, Mr. Sherlock Holmes certainly knew how to deliver his fair share of guttural Whitechapel curses!

"Where will he be housed until he arrives at Holloway?" Lestrade asked, and he didn't miss the note of consternation that flickered across Mycroft Holmes's face at this. "If it does not sound presumptive, Your Honour, I have to say, you are not in a condition to deal with his flights of madness. He needs a strong hand, even now, to keep him from harming himself or possibly others. If you like, we can arrange a small stay with us here at the Yard under the watchful eye of one of our constables, a feat I think can be managed for a quality judge of the Assize, such as yourself."

His Honour breathed a sigh of relief at this, and Lestrade was happy to see his words were the cause. "I do appreciate this, though I suffer to think of what my brother feels about it. Please, if you could treat him with extra courtesy..."

"I understand."

"You are an exceptionally kind man, Lestrade. I shall be sure to inform your superiors."

"There are few who look upon my station as one of supreme honour," Lestrade said. "Though it would come from a highly reputable source, that information would not be heeded. Men such as I are only one step above the rats we corral in the estimation of many."

"You suffer fools, my friend."

"I suppose I do, yes."

He watched with pained expectation as the judge stood, his cane leaned on heavily as he made his way out of the dark recesses of the building, Lestrade close behind him. That he had not shown up with any servant in tow said much about the man, either that his pride was paramount or, more likely, his funds had been stretched to their limit thanks to the antics of his mad brother. Lestrade couldn't stop himself from following him out of the station to the hansom waiting for him outside, his arm outstretched to aid the elder Holmes in getting into the carriage. "I have to wonder," he said, more as a ruse to continue his association than any actual question, for his suspicions had already been put into motion, "If it would be all right if I rode with you? There are some nagging points your brother has made that vex me, and I would like to clarify them, though preferably in private."

Mycroft Holmes hesitated before getting into the cab. "An odd request, Mr. Lestrade, but I will humour you. You may accompany me to my home at Baker Street."

The ride was an uncomfortable one, but not without conversation, for while Mr. Holmes had difficulty catching his breath during times of stress, Lestrade was happy to note he had an easier time of it the closer they came to his oddly humble home at 221 Baker Street. They discussed many topics, some of which were the odd cases Holmes had been presented with, too many of which he suspected earned innocent men a prison sentence. "I mitigate when I can, but the plight of a poor, innocent man is a desperate one when he finds himself looking for mercy in the Assize. Solicitors for the defence are difficult to come by and are of such variance in quality it is impossible to believe they are doing a sufficient job at all. I blame the nature of the lower courts, where accusations are based on the hearsay of neighbours and are often biased."

"It can be a real circus," Lestrade agreed. "Lots of incoherent shouting and testimony that contradicts from one day to the next. It's a wonder anyone manages to find justice. In the cases you've sometimes seen in the courts of Assize, I have no doubt that acts of murder by the jury themselves have been perpetrated, though proving that would be difficult."

"Yes. For once all of their stories would corroborate with one another, that would be an unusual note, but not one that would afford a man his liberty. Better to be judged by strangers than by one's fellow man!" The cab slowed to a halt in front of a white washed building, a lacquered black door the only humble announcement that this was where his Honour, Judge Mycroft Holmes, lived. The door flung open and a tall, worried woman in her early fifties stood in its frame, her large hands wringing anxiously within her muslin apron.

"Are you faring well, Mr. Holmes? I will get you a kettle of peppermint tea, that does seem to settle your lungs. They really are rattling about today, it would have been best had you stayed inside and not chased after that demented lad!" She was a stern woman, Lestrade observed, with a strong back and an even stronger black gaze which she fixed on Lestrade. "You have company?"

"Inspector Lestrade has been kind enough to agree to Sherlock's amenable incarceration at Scotland Yard until he is moved into Holloway. He is accompanying me upstairs, Mrs. Hudson, so if you could be so kind as to bring up some tea that would be most welcome."

Lestrade watched him as he leaned on his cane and attempted to make the first step, the effort leaving his weakened state shivering in effort. Mrs. Hudson pulled Lestrade aside before he went forth to help him. "Make it so it's his idea that you give him some support to help him up. Keep a good grip under his left shoulder and allow him to brace himself against the wall."

"Are you his nursemaid?"

"I run this household, so I am not averse to adding that title to many I now possess. I worked in the Royal Brompton Hospital before I was employed by Mr. Holmes."

"The Hospital for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest, yes I know of it, and I have to wonder just how ill Mr. Holmes is to have earned a specialist housekeeper from such a place."

Mrs. Hudson was proud and bristled at the lower title he gave her, her strong shoulders pushed back. "It's true that nursing is hard, structured work and at times dangerous, as many a nurse has succumbed to the same disease as their patients. That is not the case here and I have the proper knowledge to take care of him when necessary. He is not contagious, if that is your worry, he has weakened lungs thanks to being infected with consumption when he was but a child. He was able to survive the disease, a miracle in itself, but as you can see it has damaged him." She sighed wearily as she glanced over Lestrade's shoulder, and offered a further whisper. "Go on, then, help him up before he swoons and falls down the stairs, the man is stubborn and proud and would risk a broken limb rather than ask for the help he needs!"

Lestrade gave her a respectful nod before hurrying up the few steps Mycroft had managed on his own, his arm entwined in the judge's and earning him a sharp look of alarm. He could feel the warmth of the man's body beneath his grip, the small shiver running through his ill used muscles an uncomfortable strain. "Mrs. Hudson has waxed the stairs and my well worn footwear can't seem to find proper purchase. I hope you don't mind, it's slippy and it would be a great help if you could assist me in bracing my steps the rest of the way."

Mycroft gave him a warm smile and assured Lestrade that if there was any spot at all to slip on he would do his best to ensure both their feet remained in solid unison upon the stairs. They journeyed upwards, Mycroft leaning heavily on him the closer they got to the upper rooms, his odd shivering subsiding, and it was with some surprise that Lestrade was led into a space that was large and pleasant to look at, a fire waiting for them in the hearth, as well as two cozy chairs situated in front of it. The furnishings, though sparse, were carefully chosen and of exceptionally fine quality. There was an odd scent in the room as well, one that reminded Lestrade of camphor but was slightly less pungent. He found the source in a set of twigs set by the fireside, their rounded green petals layered like coins along their circumference.

"Eucalyptus, imported from Australia," Mycroft said as he sat in his chair, his breathing suddenly eased and colour returning to his stark white cheeks. "It has been long known to aid in lung ailments. I trust Mrs. Hudson told you of my malady?"

"Only that you have been afflicted since you were a child, after a serious infection. The rest I can surmise myself. You spent a great deal of time in Sokolowsko, for surely only the open air concepts were available to you for treatment in your youth. The fresh air pushed the disease from your small lungs. You also have a family country house you still visit, one with an ocean view, for it is conducive to your health, as the poisoned air off of the Thames can't possibly do you any good. Mrs. Hudson has been your nurse, one you hired after a spell in Royal Brompton Hospital and you were impressed with her work. Please do not look at me so alarmed, your Honour, I am a detective, and as such I am trained to look into the smallest details and see where others do not, and if I would be so bold these are not minuscule details you have given me. Which is why I am rather concerned for your brother."

The pale sheen had returned to Mycroft's brow and Lestrade felt ashamed at being the cause of it. It wasn't the first time his methods had made the focus of his target uncomfortable, and while he was known to be a friendly and genuinely caring man, there were many at the station who felt that Lestrade had some latent gypsy witchery lurking within him and it was this that aided him in solving every case presented to him.

He stood by the fire and close to Mycroft Holmes, a warm hand placed on the judge's tense, thin shoulder. He did not miss the sudden sigh the touch elicited, nor the wayward flutter of his lashes, only a second in evidence but a reaction of note regardless. Mycroft's pallor had increased, but so did his pulse, the jugular jumping towards Lestrade's soothing fingers that dug just that little bit deeper into the touch. No words need be exchanged for this proof, for Mycroft Holmes was indeed in resonance with Lestrade, and this both excited and frightened him.

"About this thing with your brother at the Alma..."

But Lestrade was not able to press his point just yet, for there was a loud discussion at the base of the stairs, with Mrs. Hudson offering her stern protests and a careless, affable voice answering her concerns with far too much familiarity for Lestrade's liking. This rather arrogant attitude followed the stout intruder into the room where Lestrade and Holmes were now seated across from one another, and their interloper gave the Honourable Judge Holmes a cheeky grin that reminded Lestrade of a circus ringleader.

"Your brother is imprisoned! Marvellous!"

"I don't think that is particularly good news, Dr. Watson," Holmes said, and he was beginning to become breathless again, an affliction Lestrade wished could be cured with the simple tea that Mrs. Hudson was yet to bring up.

"On the contrary, with this behind him he is set to become one of my most infamous patients within Holloway, and funding for my efforts will not be as dear to come by. Don't give me such a dour look, my dear Mr. Holmes, I'm not about to parade your brother in front of every window in the sanatorium and beg for coins. He is a young man of grave eccentricities that can and will be treated to great effectiveness. You have my full assurance on this."

Introductions were given, and while Mrs. Hudson laid out the tea and poured one for Mycroft, who took it with a pale, shaking grip, Lestrade learned that Dr. John Watson was a keen proponent of the stress free environment that Holloway provided, and had many success stories that he embellished with great aplomb, his hands rubbed before him as though stoking the fire of his soon to be illustrious career.

"People of grave nervous dispositions, such as Sherlock, are in need of environments that provide both rest and distraction. Quality furnishings and a country atmosphere promote the mind to reset into calmer parameters, accentuated by occupation of one's time in simple, easily achieved goals. When applicable, strychnine has been proven to be effective in some ailments. It has long been my belief that positive pursuits can give positive results. Art, music, crafts that aid in self expression, these are things that can bring about the resurgence of that nebulous thing we decide to call sanity."

"And you can attain this by having madmen sew together rag dolls?" Lestrade asked.

Dr. Watson remained unruffled in the face of this oblique criticism. "Keeping oneself busy in even a frivolous pursuit has proven to give a sense of purpose."

"Perhaps you're right. At the very least it distracts a madman from attacking invisible enemies, and placing innocent civilians in his demon inspired path."

Lestrade sat at the edge of the chair opposite Mycroft as Dr. Watson brought over a pink velvet chair that was placed at the window closer to the two men, their voices now a circle of speculative reasoning. Mycroft was already appearing more settled, the effects of the tea working their magic, and Lestrade himself found he rather enjoyed the sweet, cloying nature of the peppermint scented brew, its herbal remedy seeming to sharpen his own senses. He wondered if there was an additional medicine within it, and from the brightness evident in Mr. Holmes's eyes, a tincture of cocaine was not out of the question.

"The thing is," he continued, "I don't believe Sherlock is ever idle, and this issue with The Alma Pub is a strange one. He really does fervently believe that owner is dead, bloodily murdered, despite our officers being given full evidence to the contrary. We brought the owner in, and presented him to Sherlock, a Mr. Oliver Graves, a most imposing monolith of a man and a white wire haired creature as any could ever witness. He is thus singular in appearance and there is no room for error."

Dr. Watson was still abominably cheerful about this as he instantly dismissed Lestrade's worry. "Sherlock suffers from paranoia, which has now morphed into a delusory state. I would argue that the negative stresses of gambling debts and the overall violent atmosphere of the Alma has caused this."

Lestrade shook his head. "It's not so simple. I have to wonder, because there are far too many who witnessed Sherlock's outburst who leapt to Mr. Graves' defence, and I daresay it was their fervour in the insistence that caused Sherlock to react violently. When pressed to shed his mad speculative embellishments of a disguise and conspiracy, Sherlock's story has never wavered. He had arrived at The Alma Pub at eight o'clock, keen to play cards and place his bets in an effort to supplement his small allowance, and to settle up an old debt that was not so dear as to be crippling. It was when he went to pay that the cry of foul went up, and according to several witnesses, of whom include the barkeep, the regular patrons and the men playing cards that night, Sherlock had attacked Mr. Graves without any provocation whatsoever. It's a strange business, because while I know your brother is not an easy person and is prone to rambling thoughts that he expresses loudly, he has never been one to strike another."

"It is a symptom of his worsening condition," Dr. Watson said, nodding sagely at his own diagnosis. "Allowed to fester in his delusions of grandeur, Sherlock expands upon them until they spill out into acts committed against the public. Violence, in this case, triggered by the confused puzzle of his thoughts."

"That may be true of some of your patients, Dr. Watson, but please forgive me when I say, I don't think that's the case here at all."

Mycroft paused as he sipped his tea, his delicate disposition highlighted by the snapping crackle of white flames in the heart beside him. "What do you believe is wrong with my brother, Mr. Lestrade?"

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and contemplated the dance of the fire between them. "I think Sherlock is telling the absolute truth. I think Mr. Oliver Graves *is* dead."

Both Mycroft and Dr. Watson exchanged glances over this, the latter no doubt already preparing a room and pieces of rag doll for Lestrade himself to stitch together. "What makes you think thus?" Mycroft asked. "You said it yourself, the dead man stood in front of your desk!"

"The witnesses," Lestrade said. He clasped his hands on his knees and leaned forward as though in prayer. "They all had the same story, not a word misplaced all 'round. I have to wonder how it can be that a tale can find no missing piece amongst so many, for there is always a variation, with the truth lurking within the common words. But these were all adamant statements, proclaiming their truth, each person, a dozen in all, stating exactly that Sherlock had attacked Mr. Graves with no provocation and had done so when he'd gone to pay a gambling debt."

Dr. Watson laughed at this. "He made a good impression, then!"

But Mycroft Holmes was disturbed by Lestrade's words, and he set down his tea in his lap, pondering them carefully. "What of the card players, did they say the same thing?"

"Identical," Lestrade said.

Mycroft gave him an alarmed look. "Then they are lying!"

Dr. Watson was hopelessly lost at this exclamation, and it was Lestrade who filled him in on the pertinent details that made the story a falsehood.

"As you know, gambling in these public houses is forbidden, though this doesn't stop the miscreants from engaging in it. Sherlock is most definitely guilty of that, thus his insistence he was in disguise and doing an impromptu investigation of his own, words meant to mollify the arresting officers. But as gambling is an activity kept under the yoke of the law, those who break it have to do it in secret. The card players were in a back room, sectioned off from the main bustle of the Alma, with a closed door between them and the drunken rabble outside it. Thus, unless they can see through walls, they did not see the altercation between Sherlock and Mr. Oliver Graves."

"I don't understand," Dr. Watson said. "How is it then that Mr. Graves is dead?"

"Because the large man who ambled into our police station is not at all the man who Sherlock owed money. The motives to keep up this ruse are very clear, for the real Mr. Graves was a man who managed gambling debts, and it is likely everyone in that ill reputed pub was in arrears. With Graves murdered and a proxy put in place, all debts were forgiven, and his proxy earned the property for his trouble. From what we know of Mr. Graves, he was not a married man, nor had any heirs to speak of. He was a solitary man whose existence could easily be replaced, the stranger a welcome stand-in for those who had ill earned debts."

Dr. Watson was flabbergasted by this, and Mycroft was increasingly pensive. "How shall such a thing be proven?"

"A corpse, of course," Lestrade said. "I have set some of my best men on it, and I'm destined to receive word if my suspicions are correct. The Alma Pub is situated in a rather tucked away section of Whitechapel, and I trust he will be in one of the many abandoned cellars beneath it, though which one will be a challenge of my men's patience."

That patience was extended within the Holmes household for several hours, as the three men discussed the topic of murder and investigation with a fervent zeal that Lestrade was more than happy to accommodate. More than once Lestrade caught Mycroft's admiring eye, a hint of curiosity glinting within them that Lestrade was very willing to explore if this damnable, boastful little man known as Dr. John Watson hadn't been present. But, as is the nature of such rare unions, Lestrade knew to exercise patience, and it was much rewarded when the whistle came up, and one of his constables was admitted into 221B by a very strained and humourless Mrs. Hudson.

Constable Harding was a young and vibrant man with dark eyes that twinkled in the dark. He smiled broadly when he entered the room, giving everyone a polite nod before blurting out, "We've found his body, sir! Bludgeoned with the heel of a wine bottle, the whole side of his old head sunk right in! Got brain bits on my trousers when I stumbled over him!"

"In the cellar?" Lestrade asked.

"Aye, sir, in where they kept the potatoes, sir, and the rest of the pantry goods. I wouldn't be eating there for the next few days if I were you, there was splattered bits everywhere all over the vegetables."

Constable Harding was an excellent officer, but his graphic accounts were unnerving to even the most seasoned of his peers. Lestrade congratulated him on a job well done and bid him to arrest the offending parties, the whole dozen of them, and charge them all with murder.

If it was up to Lestrade, this would have been the place where the story ended, and in future it was, for Dr. Watson was fascinated by Lestrade's detecting methods, a spark lit within him that had commerce placed upon it, though Lestrade couldn't figure as to how. By the time Dr. Watson had bid them goodnight and left to hail a hansom, it was a fatefully late hour, and Lestrade had a long way to go to get back to the single, overly spare room he rented next door to Scotland Yard.

"I do hope you don't believe you are going to take such a journey," Mycroft said. His eyes were on the fire as he spoke, little embers alighting on his courage. "The hour is far too late, and it vexes me that you would think to hail a cab and leave into this misted night that holds no thanks for what you have done for my brother. Vindication should have a just reward."

"I am merely presenting what I know to be true," Lestrade assured him. "If I remain in your company, it is solely because I am enjoying it."

Mycroft Holmes blushed at this, and it was a lovely thing to see this man so usually overcome with ailment forget its influence upon his lonely life. "I have an adjoining bedroom, a spare next to mine. You may, of course, spend the night, there is no other here save Mrs. Hudson and she's aware of my sleeping habits and my desire on occasion to accommodate my guests." His gaze flickered from the fire to Lestrade, his breathless sigh near swallowed. "Of course, there isn't a lit fire in that room, and it may get chilly. I always have a warm hearth lit in my own room, and...I see no reason for you to suffer when I have a perfectly comfortable place that we could share. If you are amenable, of course. I am thinking of your health. There is no reason to tempt a cold."

"I find your logic especially appealing," Lestrade said, giving him a wide grin. He stood up from his chair and approached Mycroft Holmes with unreserved affection, stealing a kiss from cool lips that shivered in response to his bold action. This risky venture was followed by another, and if passion ignited and Mycroft's breathless need brought them both into a segue that ended in a gentle tangle of limbs, strong and weak, entwined in wool blankets until morning, this was not something the vagaries of history officially recorded.

In fact, if one takes in the years that Lestrade and Mycroft kept their close acquaintance, with Lestrade's sudden permanent move to Baker Street not causing an upturned brow (His Honour Judge Mycroft Holmes was, after all, an ill man devoid of adequate family, and Lestrade's friendly devotion was admirable)one could understand the permanent annoyance Mycroft Holmes felt when reading Dr. Watson's partially fictional detective tales where his younger brother Sherlock was given a starring role. Lestrade did not like being portrayed as an unthinking, weasel faced oaf any more than Mycroft enjoyed being described as a lazy public servant whose chubby form never left the confines of his desk. But these petty stories in The Strand could be forgotten beneath the trudge of justice that both Lestrade and Mycroft toiled to enact, with Dr. Watson as their unofficial note taker.

He may have failed to pen the exploits of their lips, but then, that was, as Mycroft often described their embraces, wholly medicinal. Dr. Watson himself would not disagree. A well placed kiss can make any man breathe easy.


End file.
